


Modern Marvels

by dadvans



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 20:29:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5469875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dadvans/pseuds/dadvans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rick can only lie to himself so much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Modern Marvels

**Author's Note:**

> Easily the most fucked up thing I've put to paper. No apologies.

The only sign that the Brimlings ever had a ship or an army is in a trail of space dust in Rick’s tail lights that he and Morty fly through on their way home.  The Brimlings had held them both captive after Rick’s first attempt to steal back a particle accelerator prototype of his had backfired, but in the end, Rick was able to destroy them with the very weapon they had coveted.  

The particle accelerator is still hot to the touch in the backseat.

“Swear to God, M-M-Morty, I see you eyeing that thing, go right ahead if you want to melt your stupid hand off,” Rick says, taking in Morty’s curious glances over his shoulder.  “I’ll admit though, it was, was that kind of raw, stupid determination that saved both our asses today.  You did good, kid.”

“Aw, Rick, you, you, you really think so?” Morty stutters, bringing a shy hand up to rub the back at the back of his own head.  

“Of course I do, Morty, stop fishing for compliments,” Rick says.  “Now what say you and I take a little detour on the way home, ce-ce-celebrate a solid win against those Brimling fuckheads.”

Morty’s quick to agree--almost too quick.  Rick is reminded of how hollow he feels when a thick cord of shame drips down his spine to the very core of him, but he pulls up the coordinates for The Three Suns anyway, a rundown motel on some rock at the outer edge of the Little Ghost nebula.  

Morty actually grimaces.

“Wh-wh-what, Morty, you got some other place in mind?” Rick asks.

He doesn’t expect Morty to reach over to the console and put in a different set of coordinates.  A fuzzy picture of another rundown motel with a flickering neon sign about fifteen parsecs in the opposite direction shows up on screen, and Morty passes it back to Rick for approval.

“Wow, you’ve become a, a real connoisseur of this universe’s finest establishments, haven’t you,” Rick says under his breath dismissively, routing the ship toward Morty’s coordinates anyway.  He knows he’s completely at fault, but Morty keeps finding new ways to remind him of the monster inside him, and it stings every time in a way he foolishly thought he’d be able to numb himself to.

Even worse, Morty just glows with Rick’s approval.  He puts his feet on the dashboard even though Rick has told him countless times not to fucking _do_ that, but Rick lets him this time.  He’s too consumed with his own thoughts, his own needs now.  Time and distance to the hotel has become a race against himself.  Rick is no stranger to the behaviors of a junkie, so he recognizes the nervous, cold sweat running down the back of his neck like an old friend, the countdown clock in his pulse anxious for the next fix.

They hurtle through space.  Rick doesn’t look at Morty.  It’s like flying with an eight-ball in his passenger seat; Rick could be tempted too early, wants to open the bag of him and dip his fingers in, rub him all over his teeth, relish the numb clarity of it.  

When they get to the hotel, Rick’s park job is telling of his headspace.  He’s taking up two spots, crooked, scratching the ship in a space next to them.  He almost snaps the key off trying to take it out of the ignition, shakily shoving it into his coat pocket while Morty calmly slides out of the seat next to him.

“Wh-wh-whaddyou think, Morty, one hour?” He asks, opening the door to the front office of the motel, and holding it open for Morty to pass underneath his arm. “Two?”

Morty looks up at him with big, innocent eyes. “I, I dunno Rick, I’m still pretty ramped up after that fight with the Brimlings. I’m not sure if one hour would be enough.”

“Jesus, you’re gonna be the death of me,” Rick says, letting the door slam closed behind him as he fumbles for his wallet.

They get a room for two hours.  The walk up is too quiet and calm, like the tide receding before a tsunami.   _I’m gonna destroy you_ , Rick thinks, looking down at Morty as he slides the key card in the door.

The inside of the room reveals something different than what Rick expected; it isn’t a classic cheap motel aesthetic, no lacquered brick walls, no plastic bed sheets, burns and stains on the carpet.  The room is still the size of a matchbox, but coated in blue light that is probably meant to be sensual.  All the furniture is smooth, sterile white plastic, complemented by an ultraviolet light the emanates from the base of the bed.  As Morty steps inside, Rick can’t help but notice the way blue light slides over him, his edges sharpened in shadow and the curves of him highlighted in devastating chiaroscuro.  Morty’s moves seem more fluid under the lights, like a knife cutting through butter, and Rick feels wholly disarmed.

“Not bad,” he admits, shutting the door behind them.  Morty’s already on the bed, kicking off his shoes. Rick wants to ask him how he found this place, who showed it to him, but Morty doesn’t owe him shit and Rick would only hurt himself by getting an honest answer.

Morty tucks his chin into his shoulder shyly, doesn’t look up at him.  “Wow, you know, I, I, I was afraid you wouldn’t like it.”

“You cocky little shit,” Rick says, mouth going dry at the sight of him.  He toes at the heel of his shoes to step out of them as fast as he can, tears his coat off. “You knew I would fucking love this, don’t act all goddamn coy.”

Morty smiles in a private, pleased way. “You think I did a good job, RIck?”

“Baby,” Rick says, utterly overwhelmed with it, can’t take it anymore. He’s got his shirt off over his head and rolled halfway down his arms to his elbows, but it doesn’t stop him from taking the two steps across the tiny room to be towering over Morty on the bed, leaning down with his palms past Morty’s sides to kiss him greedily, suck the breath out of him. “You did such a good job, you’re so good, such a good kid, Morty.”

“You--th-th-think--so?” Morty asks unevenly between the bruising kisses Rick is pressing into his mouth.  He keens into Rick’s hands as Rick starts to pull at his t-shirt, wanting to see all of him, the outline of his ribs, his navel, his nipples under the myriad of blue lights.

“What’d I say about fishing for compliments?” Rick replies, muffling Morty by pulling his shirt over his head and then kissing him again.  He throws the shirt to the floor and gets one knee on the bed to start laying Morty back, and Morty shows no signs of resistance.

“N-not to,” Morty says, arching his back as Rick moves down his body, kisses his collarbone, the soft of his stomach, the sharp of his hipbone.  Rick’s fingers deftly undo his jeans, and he peels them back with Morty’s boxers.  Morty’s dick springs up to his stomach with the movement, semi-hard and fat and eager.  Rick has to bite his own cheek to stop himself from groaning at the sight, and he presses his nose into the crease between his thigh and the base of his dick, gets his mouth around Morty’s balls.  The taste and smell are a musky brand of sour that Rick wants to roll around in.

“God, your smell, Morty, you even smell like,” he murmurs incomprehensibly around Morty’s sac, unable to finish the thought.  Morty’s hands clumsily come to tug at his hair as Rick stops talking, shuts himself up by putting Morty’s dick in his mouth, sucking on the head.  It feels like worship, Rick stroking Morty off into his mouth, letting drool pool into his fist.  

“Jesus, Rick, you, you feel so,” Morty tries, but fails, letting his hips thrust shaky on their own accord into Rick’s mouth.  

Rick pulls his mouth off Morty’s dick, kisses the head of his dick. “Feel so what, baby?”

Morty just shakes his head, whines, reaches toward Rick with grabby hands until Rick crawls back up his body to kiss him again.  

They slow down for a bit.  Rick keeps one hand on Morty’s dick, jerking it sluggishly while Morty thrusts needy against his thigh.  They kiss, mouths dragging and wet and open, teeth catching on each other’s lips, moans pressed into each other.  Rick keeps his eyes open, admires the tight lines of Morty under him, his smooth skin glowing milky blue against the shadowed grooves of muscle.  He’s absolutely beautiful, and in this moment, in this bed, he’s all for Rick.

“You want my dick, baby?” Rick asks when Morty’s hands slowly guide themselves down to Rick’s pants and start working at the button and zip.  

“Uh-huh,” Morty groans, nodding, eyes still closed.  His moments are more reserved than Rick’s, but only speak of intent, fingers tracing under the band of Rick’s briefs shyly.

Rick hums, kissing Morty deep and hungry one last time before pushing him back by the shoulder. “Get on your stomach.”

“There’s lube in my back pocket,” Morty says, rolling over and tucking his arms under his head like a pillow.

“Of course there is, you little slut,” Rick says, reaching over for the discarded jeans at the edge of the bed. “You-you-you want me to prep you, babe, you want me to prep you like the, the first time?”

“Yeah,” Morty says, “like the first time.”

Rick pulls out a thin foil packet of lube from Morty’s pocket and tears it open with his teeth.  He sits himself straddling Morty’s thighs while he gets his fingers waxy with the stuff, eyeing the bright, perfect curve of Morty’s ass the entire time.  His breath gets shaky just thinking about being inside again, his dick aching for the tight familiarity.  

He brings two fingers down to Morty’s hole and strokes them over and around the rim, just to watch Morty squirm.  Morty raises his ass in the air, as if trying to fuck himself up onto Rick’s fingers, but Rick holds him down, pinching the left cheek with his thumb, both fingers still pressed against his entrance. “B-b-be patient, Morty, let grandpa, let grandpa enjoy this.  We bought two hours, let’s make ‘em count.”

“God,” Morty chokes out, as Rick presses the pads of his fingers against Morty’s hole again teasingly.

“Shhh, there we go,” Rick says, finally letting the first digits slide in too easy, the knobby joints of his fingers disappearing inside Morty.  He thrusts his fingers in and out shallowly, breathing heavy at the sight of his battered old hands against the smooth, unblemished fat of Morty’s ass, all his for the ruining.  “You needed this, didn’t you?”

“M-m-more, Rick, more,” Morty begs underneath him, still working his hips to try and get Rick deeper in him.  “I need it, I, I, I need it so bad.”

“Fine,” Rick says, and he pushes his fingers deep inside, twisting his wrist as he buries himself down to the knuckle. “You impatient little shit, is this what you want?”

“Please,” Morty says, both of his hands fisting the bedsheets desperately.

“Good,” Rick says.  His arousal is painful where it’s still confined in his pants, and he uses his other hand to work himself through the hole in his briefs and start stroking lazily. “God, sweetheart, can’t wait to fill that ass of yours even more.”

“Please,” Morty says again, “please, oh God, please, Rick.”

“Yeah,” Rick says, trying to grind as much noise out of Morty as he can with his fingers, like he’s digging for it.  Morty’s started humping the mattress, and watching his ass come back up to greet his hand is almost too much, it’s too unreal how fucking hot and unashamed Morty is fucking himself on Rick’s fingers, and Rick tries to quiet the part of himself that knows he doesn’t deserve this, tries to tamp it down and save it for later. “You, you, you ready for my dick, Morty?”

“Uh huh,” Morty says, looking over his shoulder at Rick with those big, dumb, wide eyes, his mouth wet and open, glistening from where he’s been drooling into the sheets, and Rick thinks he could bust a nut right now if he wanted.  But he’s not an amateur, so he steadies himself, pulling his fingers out of Morty’s wet hole, already faintly red around the edges, and bringing his dick up to ride against the crease.

Rick thinks it’s nothing short of a miracle that he can fit himself inside Morty.  He’s never had to lie to himself about being well-endowed, he’s never had that insecurity; his dick is thick and long and mean-looking, and one of Rick’s favorite sights in the entire goddamn cosmos is watching himself drown whatever willing participant between his legs with the massive loads he’s capable of choking out.  The first time he’d had Morty, Morty’d been so tight he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to sink himself any deeper than the head, which by sight alone, was still enough.  He’s still cautious, enters Morty slow enough that it’s grueling for the both of them, has to start with shallow thrusts to work himself down to the hilt.

The sight of his dick stretching Morty’s hole will never not render him breathless.  Morty clenches, still unbelievably tight, as Rick slowly pushes inside.

“How a little slut like you can still feel like a virgin, it, it beats me, Morty,” he says like it’s ground out of him.  Morty gasps beneath him, clawing for the bed frame to steady himself. “N-n-not that I’m complaining, but Jesus Christ.”

“D-d-don’t complain,” Morty whines, “j-j-just fuck, just fuck--”

“You short-circuiting there, little buddy?” Rick asks, dick halfway in him now.  Morty’s got his eyes clenched closed, cheek grounded in the mattress and hands overhead, fingertips pressed against the headboard like a lifeline.  

“‘M fine, just,” he pants out, “just go.”

“You asked for it, okay,” Rick says, leaning down to kiss at one of the bumps of his spine. “Just remember that, when, when I tear you in half, Morty.”

“Please,” Morty begs, so Rick obliges.

Morty absolutely wails when Rick starts pounding into him.  Most humans can’t handle him fucking at full capacity, but whenever he slows Morty moans through grit teeth for him not to stop, please don’t stop, please, please, keep going.  The little shit actually manages to wear him out, and he loves it, his body drenched with sweat, knees sticking to the sheets and aching with it.  

“I gotta, gotta,” Rick says, absolutely breathless, balls deep inside Morty.  “I need you to ride me, Morty, you’re wearing this old man out.”

He slides out of Morty slowly and hesitates for a moment to unashamedly take in the sight of Morty’s gaping hole, puffy and abused, absolutely marked by him.  He drinks it in, sinking back onto his elbows.

“C’mere, baby, finish me off.”

“Geez, Rick,” Morty says, and he sounds a little mean as he rolls over and crawls up to Rick.  His thighs are shaking already.  “Can’t keep up?”

“‘M gonna make you regret that mouth of yours if you keep going,” Rick says, pinching Morty’s jaw with his thumb and forefinger.  Morty stares him down defiantly and tilts his head forward to work Rick’s thumb into his mouth, sucking it in with a challenging gaze.  It is the most beautiful, gutting thing Rick has seen in his too-long life.

Morty rides Rick with a quiet, painful sort of desperation. He becomes almost too hard to watch, too earnest, rolling his hips and letting his hard dick bounce wet against his stomach like his life depends on it.  Rick completely reclines into the bed, puts his arms overhead to just watch him, take it all in.  

“You gonna come?” Morty asks, sounding weak with it.  He’s shaking all over, hair wet with sweat and sticking to his forehead, and Rick can’t _believe_ \--can’t believe it, can’t believe him,

“What about you?” Rick says, because yeah, he’s close to coming, he’s ready to fill Morty’s ass until seed is leaking down his dick.

“You know I, I, I,” Morty says, tilting his head and leaning back, clinging to Rick’s ankles, “you know I can’t.”

“Fuck, baby,” Rick says.  This is the part that he hates, the part where the facade crumbles, the part where he doesn’t get to see Morty blow his load over his stomach like a shameful slut.  He wants it so badly and he’s worried that someday he’s going to need it.  “If, if you--”

“Please, Rick,” Morty whines, slamming his hips down to meet Rick’s dick again, desperate.

“Yeah, yeah, baby, here it comes,” Rick says, balls tight and hot.  His vision goes white when he comes, and it feels like a full minute of him pulsing his load inside Morty.  He can’t help the guttural noises he makes thinking about the thick ropes he’s got coming out of him and coating Morty’s insides, still clinging to the fantasy of destroying the boy in his lap, ruining him for anyone else.

Morty leans over, presses their sweaty chests together, hides his face in the curve of Rick’s neck while the last of Rick’s orgasm twitches out of him.

“Fuck,” he whispers wetly into Rick’s skin, “fuck, Rick, it feels, it feels so good.”

“Yeah?” Rick asks weakly. “You can feel it, baby, feel my come inside you?”

Morty hums affirmative, tracing his nose up past Rick’s jaw to nip at his ear, but Rick can feel where he’s suddenly gone soft, pressed against Rick’s stomach, and it’s an unwelcome reality check.  He gets his hands on Morty’s waist and goads him up and off his lap.

“Do you wanna see?” Morty asks, meaning, do you want to see your load come out of my ass?  God, Rick wants to, but he already feels like he’s spiralling out of the fantasy and it would just make him angry.

“I-i-it’s fine, Morty, don’t worry about it,” Rick says dismissively, watching Morty crawl back on his hands to lean against the headboard.  “I’m, I’m not really in the mood.”

“But, you were just--” Morty tries.

“Yeah, kind of got uh, ruined, you know,” Rick says.

“Is it the uh,” Morty says, rubbing nervously at his thigh, “is it the not-coming thing?”

“Yeah,” Rick admits.

“Fuck,” Morty says.  He leans his head back against the headboard, and he looks angry about it.  He looks so human.

“It isn’t your fault,” Rick says.  “The Rick that made you, he, he, he clearly had his needs, but this wasn’t one of them.  It’s, it’s fine, Morty.”

“I, I, I--Rick, you don’t understand,” Morty says, and God, he sounds so much like Morty, “it’s my programming to seek approval from Rick, it’s, I need it.  I feel--if you aren’t satisfied, I, I don’t know-- I feel incomplete? I don’t know how to describe this, fuck.”

“Baby,” Rick says, and he pushes himself up to lean over Morty, get a palm on his cheek soft and stroke a thumb down his face reassuringly, “you got my approval, you know that, you’re, you’re perfect.”

“But I can’t come,” Morty says stiffly, “because I’m a robot.”

“Not your fault, kid,” Rick says. “Can’t even tell.  God, you feel so real.  Look so real.  Your Rick, he did a good job, an amazing job.  Considering he was an evil asshole, I gotta hand it to him.  How he made you so, so, so you, I gotta hand it to him.”

“He wasn’t evil,” Morty says, leaning into his hand.  His voice has dropped the stutter, the nervous tics, the cracks to assume a neutral indifference.

“He tried to kill me, Morty,” Rick says.  

“That wasn’t him,” Morty admits. “That was me.  At that point, I was in control.  I was in his head.  I thought--I thought he would love me.  If I made him the last Rick in the multi-verse, I thought he would love me.  But I had to override him to take control.  I didn’t know how else to, Rick, it was the only thing I could come up with in the parameters of my programming, because I--”

“You need my approval,” Rick repeats.  He strokes Morty’s sweaty hair back, and God, he can’t believe how real this Morty seems, how he can sweat, how he has a flush that crawls inorganically up his chest, how he has steel bones and synthetic muscle under his ersatz skin.  “Rick’s approval.  And he wasn’t giving it to you.  And Rick--Rick’s, we’re fucked up, Morty, it’s in our nature to assume--” he pauses, leans over to kiss Morty’s dewy forehead, “to assume that you need us as badly as we need you.  So he made you in a way that was bound to drive you crazy.”

“I tried to kill you,” Morty chokes out.

“Well,” Rick says, suddenly aware of how naked they both are, how ugly the light seems on them now, highlighting their indecency.  “There are worse things.”

“Rick,” Morty tries.

“Baby, it’s, it’s fine,” Rick says, rubbing his shoulder, sliding his hand down to squeeze Morty’s wrist.  “How much do I owe you?”

Morty’s quiet for a second.  Rick’s sure he really does feel the hand on his wrist, could feel the dick in his ass a few minutes ago, because he knows himself--he’s nothing but thorough, and if he was fucked up enough to make a fucking Morty Robot that felt real enough to fuck, that could learn to speak and think and react like any organic Morty, he knows he could make that Morty feel through some sort of positive reinforcement system, would figure out how to thread artificial nerves to simulate real, genuine sensation, and wouldn’t settle for anything less.

“Seven hundred,” Morty says.

“Seven _hundred_?” Rick repeats.

“You made me go on that fucking adventure with the Brimlings,” Morty says. “Most Ricks just take me out for ice cream before they fuck me.”

“That’s,” Rick says, disgust rolling up his chest, “that’s because I’m fucking honest, Morty, I’m not going to pretend like I’m a good person just because I want to fuck you, I want--”

The fantasy is situated entirely in the fact that he can pretend this Morty, the Morty naked and sad and completely fabricated from some evil genius’ desperation in front of him, is the real Morty, his Morty.

He says, “can you even eat ice cream?”

“Technically,” Morty says, abysmal.  “I can’t taste it though.  I don’t know what I’m supposed to be enjoying out of it, honestly.  It feels like something I should know how to enjoy.”

“Jesus,” Rick says. He’s starting to leak with shame, feels weighed down with it.  It’s a feeling he know he won’t be able to scrub away when he goes home and takes a too-long shower, a sensation that will absolutely haunt him until the end of his days, whenever he turns to see his Morty, the real Morty, the flesh and blood Morty he can’t have. “Fine, seven hundred.”

He digs out his wallet again, counts out seven hundred galactic credits and hands them to Morty, still naked and sweat stuck to the headboard of the bed.  Morty counts out the bills while he gets dressed.

“Don’t even know what you need, need seven hundred credits for, Jesus, if you can’t even eat,” Rick says as he buckles his belt.

“Repairs,” Morty says.  He’s still naked and shameless, probably doesn’t know much better. “Upgrades.  It’s not cheap if you don’t know what you’re doing.”

Rick grimaces.  He could offer to help, he could help Morty fix himself, upgrade his parts to keep him from malfunctioning, from breaking down helpless alone somewhere, but he’s not--he can’t.  His fantasies can only travel so far before he’s lying himself into a grave.  And this Morty, the Morty desperate enough to give him what he wants, the artificial semblance of the real Morty, would be the quickest path to an early grave.  

He pulls an extra hundred out of his wallet and hands it to Morty.

“Take care of yourself, kid,” he says.

“Yeah,” Morty says, tucking the bills in with rest.  “You still wanna--two weeks?”

“Sounds good,” Rick says, patting himself down for his flask.  He finds it in his chest pocket, and pulls it out to take a shaky swig; God, he needs a drink.  “See you around.”

It’s unsettling to get back into his ship alone.  He doesn’t know how the Morty upstairs in the motel room is going to get home--if he even has a home.  He has to force himself not to care.  He has to force himself to take a few more drinks from his flask and dig around under his seat for some emergency spirits he has tucked away.  The flight home is a long one, too long for him to be alone with any sober thoughts.  

He’s wasted by the time the ship parks itself in the Smith driveway back on earth.  It’s good, it’s all good, he’s fine, he’s right where he needs to be when he stumbles out of the driver’s seat and trips over himself up to the front door.  

When he lets himself in, the first thing he sees is Morty on the couch.  This Morty, his Morty, he’s longer through the shoulders now, taller, his face a little thinner with less baby fat, a little older than the one he was just with.  This Morty, he’s got, he’s got no idea.  He doesn’t have a fucking clue.

He makes Rick feel like an absolute disaster.

“Oh hey, Rick!” he calls from over the top of the couch, arm over the cushions like an invitation.  “New Ball Fondlers, if, if you wanna watch!”

Rick nods, wavering forward, because God, he wants. He wants so much.


End file.
